


Eyes of the Moor

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Elizabeth (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-20
Updated: 2007-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:17:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elizabeth, through the eyes of Walsingham</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes of the Moor

**Author's Note:**

> with great thanks to Nestra for beta duties and the entire DRV for hand-holding!
> 
> Written for Kiera Kingsley

 

 

Eyes of the Moor  
Fandom: Elizabeth  
For: Kiera Kingsley, for Yuletide 2007

Rating: Gen

The first time he saw Her Majesty - he only saw her from afar, as Cecil did not bother to introduce him until several days later - she was... Walsingham could only describe her as "radiant". She was clad top-to-toe in luminous white, her skin pale and her hair aflame, a feminine version of her formidable father. Her voice was low, almost masculine (which offended his Puritan sensibilities), but it carried well in the crowded hall. He watched her cross the hall, greeting this courtier and that; then suddenly her eyes met his. It was almost a physical blow, the power of her gaze, and she held his eyes for a long, long moment before turning her head to Cecil, inquiring, he knew, as to his identity. Cecil's pale blue eyes flickered toward him and then back to Her Majesty; not quite dismissive, no, not quite, but near enough to it.

***

The day he was introduced to her, she was clad in deep forest green. She extended long elegant white fingers for him to kiss; her grip was firm and her gaze piercing. He had been advised Her Majesty was well-educated. Rumour proved to be true as within a few minutes he observed her reading a document writ in Latin, discussing the latest offer from D'Anjou in French with Cecil and inquiring about his own security procedures in English.

They discussed the threat from the French, from Philip of Spain, from Mary of Guise currently lurking in her cold stone castles north in Scotland. He soon discovered Her Majesty shared other traits with King Henry of Blessed Memory - she had a most unfeminine habit of looking straight in a man's face rather than downwards as a proper woman should. She not only attended Privy Council meetings, but also asked questions and demanded answers from men double her age and more.

She was, he reminded himself, no mere woman but God's Anointed. He learned from hard experience and sharp tongue-lashings to keep his own counsel regarding her behavior, but he also gained a deep appreciation for her sharp intellect and soon spoke as openly and bluntly to her as he would to a man.

***

After Her Majesty had finally, thank God!, recovered from the small-pox, his first view of her was as she was still in her bed, recovering. Always pale, she was practically translucent, so frail had she become through her illness. She extended a white hand to him, a hand that trembled slightly, although he would never admit to anyone (not even his beloved wife) that the Queen had shown any weakness at any time.

He informed her, by her request, of the status of her diplomacy with the foreign nations. Although he intentionally made his report as short as possible, still her eyelids were drooping by the time he finished. She thanked him, her voice a thin whispering echo of her normal tones, and drifted off to sleep.

He sat with her for hours, watching her breathe and marveling that God had again, in his beneficence, saved England from yet another civil war by preserving her to her people.

She _must_ marry. He would see to it.

In the end, Queen or no Queen, she was still a woman and all women needed to be married. More importantly, it was her sacred duty to her country.

***

His last view of her was as he was given formal leave to depart from Court. It was a formal meeting; she was seated on her throne, surrounded by her adoring Court. Even after all the years, her tone was still preemptory and carried easily through the crowded hall.

"Where is my Lord Walsingham?"

He stepped forward, leaning heavily on his cane. "Here, your Majesty."

As he approached, she extended her hand to him. He took it, her fingers cold to his touch, and reverently kissed her fingertips before looking up to her.

Her face was heavily made up with the white lead powder she had made so fashionable over the years. Her cheeks were rouged, and she wore an elegant wig to disguise her no-longer ruddy tresses. From a distance she could, and did, still resemble the lovely child-queen that had ascended the throne so many years ago; from up close even his tired aged eyes could see the feminine wiles she used to try to disguise her aging.

It would infuriate him, were it any other woman: Puritan women were not allowed such frivolous vanities.

It would sadden him, were it any other woman; that she would find it so difficult to embrace the progress of age.

But this was his Queen, his lodestone, and she could do no wrong in his eyes.

"So, Francis, you choose to leave us."

He bowed his head. "Indeed, Madam, this leave-taking is not of my choice."

She smiled tenderly, but there was a knowledgeable sadness in her dark eyes. "You have served me well, my Moor. Too well, I think, for it has cost you your health."

"Madam, there can be no question of 'too much' when it is a matter of serving you. I leave with much reluctance, as you well know, and I promise you I will return as soon as I am able."

Her smile faded. "Francis, we have always had honesty, you and I. Let us be honest here, too, in what may well be our last meeting."

He lowered his head. He could not deny the exhaustion that had seeped into his bones, that his heart sometimes pained so badly he could scarcely breathe.

She tipped a finger under his beard to raise his eyes to her. "You, my Moor, have been the deepest and truest of my advisors. My Eyes and my Lids, they have been my lovers and admirers. My Spirit, I think I have always been a bit of his daughter in his eyes. But to you... from you I have had only bare truth and devotion."

"I am, and always will be, your most loyal servant, Madam." Even to his ears, his voice sounded choked and emotional. He lowered his forehead to her hand, feeling again how thin and fragile she was, how her bones seemed to lie just under the surface of her delicate white skin.

"Go with God, Francis. I will pray daily that God preserve you to me and that you will return soon. But know you go forth with my love and eternal gratitude for all you have done for me."

"God Himself put me here to protect and defend you Madam. Should you have need, send a messenger and I will be at your side as fast as my old bones will carry me." He bowed and kissed her hand a final time.

As he left the room, he turned a final time, and drank in his last view of her. She was dressed, as she had been in his first viewing of her, in pure virginal white: his Gloriana, his _Regina Virgine_ , and she was beautiful. To him, she was and always had been, the nearest thing to Goddess. He murmured a small prayer, going so far as to invoke the Papist Virgin Mary, that she would always find protectors and defenders, without him nearby to watch over her.

 


End file.
